


mischief of one kind

by canistakahari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M, Gen, Humor, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:23:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott McCall and Derek Hale are kindergarten teachers. Scott's story times are very interactive. Derek hates glitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mischief of one kind

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [dirtymackem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/profile) for reading this as I wrote this and telling me it didn't suck, and to [shecrows](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shecrows/profile) for encouraging this madness on twitter and giving me the idea of making Stiles a music teacher when I couldn't think of what he'd be. 
> 
> "Where the Wild Things Are" belongs to Maurice Sendak. It's quoted several times throughout the fic.

When Stiles opens the door to Scott’s classroom carting the trolley of recorders behind him, Scott is in the middle of story time. They don’t have music until after lunch, but Stiles likes to bring the instruments down before the break, so that he can organise the chairs when the kids are in the cafeteria.

 

The class is used to his weekly intrusion and they only glance briefly at him before turning back to Scott.

 

Scott, who’s standing by the SMARTboard wearing a headband with big pointy construction paper ears stapled to it, waving his hands in the air as he reads “Where the Wild Things Are” from the screen.

 

“‘And when he came to the place where the wild things are,’” cries Scott, “‘they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws—’”

 

The kids, Stiles realises belatedly as he leans against the trolley and takes a moment just to watch, are all wearing headbands as well, though theirs have little pointy horns stapled to them. They’re decked out in string-and-paper masks that have crêpe streamers and pipe-cleaners punched into the edges.

 

 _They’re the wild things_ , Stiles thinks, and then Scott jumps up onto his chair, and he notices the paper wolf tail safety-pined to the bottom of Scott’s sweater. _And Scott’s Max._

 

“‘—till Max said “BE STILL!” and tamed them with the magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once—’”

 

And here Scott bends over his rapt class, staring each and every one of them down with his wide brown eyes.

 

“‘—and they were frightened and called him the _most_ wild thing of all!’”

 

Scott jumps down in front of his enthralled audience and raises his arms up to the ceiling. “‘—and made him king of _all_ wild things!’” One of the kids, having waited half the story for this moment, eagerly holds up a toy crown and Scott leans forward to let her put it on his head right between his paper ears.

 

“‘And now!’” yells Scott, sweeping up a ruler like a sceptre and waving it over his awed subjects. At this point, his class is one collective mass of anticipation. “‘ _LET THE WILD RUMPUS START_!’”

 

That’s their cue.

 

Every single kid jumps joyously up to their feet and Scott joins them in their rumpus-ing, jumping up and down, waving their arms, stomping their feet, screaming like unholy terrors, until it sounds like the room is filled with a stampede of rampaging animals out for blood. Which, considering it’s a group of primary school kids just before lunch, well, Stiles isn’t about to deny the sliver of fear in his heart the displays inspires.

 

Eventually, when the kids are about a nano-second away from going totally feral, Scott senses their behaviour is about to change and holds up one hand, his fingers spread, and says, “five,” at normal volume, barely audible over the commotion.

 

Scott is honestly like the child-whisperer; he counts calmly down from five, folding down his fingers and lowering his voice with each subsequent number until, finally, at one, the room is so quiet Stiles becomes aware that his ears are ringing. “Zero,” whispers Scott into the deafening silence, and then gestures for his kids to sit back down.

 

Stiles can’t quite believe he didn’t even have to raise his voice.

 

“That was a really super excellent wild rumpus!” he congratulates them, clapping his hands. “Let’s finish the story and then there’s some time for a little free play before lunch!”

 

While he finishes reading the story, Stiles moves the trolley over to the carpet. He goes to make photocopies of Three Blind Mice, which is the song they’re going to be massacring today on the recorder, and when he comes back, the kids are off the carpet and milling around the water table or playing dress-up.

 

“Hey,” says Scott, as Stiles re-enters the room. He grins and pulls off his crown. “You can set up now, sorry. Story time got a little involved.”

 

“I’m amazed you haven’t gotten a noise complaint from Mr. Grumpypants next door yet,” comments Stiles, grinning back. “That was an impressively loud wild rumpus. I honestly feared for my life a bit.”

 

“I’m gonna do it with Derek’s class this afternoon while he takes mine for gym,” says Scott. “So he had warning. He’s actually had them making their masks all morning.”

 

The classroom door opens and Derek comes in as if summoned, wearing a plastic apron spattered with paint. As he approaches them, the florescent overhead lights illuminate his hair, and Stiles catches sight of the fine layer of glitter dusted all over his head and shoulders.

 

“Dude, no,” says Scott, laughing. “Not the glitter. You know better than that!”

 

“It was Erica’s fault,” Derek says flatly. “She put it out with all the other craft supplies and I didn’t notice in time. Do you have any more pipe cleaners? Half my kids don’t have whiskers and if they don’t _get_ whiskers, I might have a classroom mutiny.”

 

“Yeah, in the cabinet,” says Scott, pointing. “Help yourself. We wouldn’t want a wild rumpus taking place ahead of schedule.” He smiles sweetly and the corners of Derek’s mouth turn down like he’s making a concentrated effort not to smile back. It’s extremely difficult to respond to Scott’s distilled sunshine smiles with anything other than an answering good-humoured grin, but more often than not Derek manages to meet pure joy with a rictus of quiet despair.

 

“Thanks,” Derek grits out, unwilling to concede. He collects an armful of pipe cleaners and after he’s left Scott looks around the room and then claps his hands loudly, three times in succession, and his class all stop and obediently clap back.

 

“Okay!” Scott calls, grinning. “It’s time to clean up, wild things! Once all the chairs are tucked in and the toys are put away, line up at the door. I’m counting down from thirty!”

 

While Scott’s class race to be first in line for lunch, Stiles sets up the chairs on the carpet, laying a recorder on each one. He puts his photocopies on Scott’s desk where he won’t forget them. By the time he finishes setting up, Scott has returned from dropping his class off at the cafeteria.

 

“Ready for lunch?” asks Scott, taking off his ears and setting them gently aside on his desk.

 

“Yup,” says Stiles, dusting off his hands. “Up, up, and away, Scotty.”

 

When they poke their heads into the room next door, Derek and his student teacher Erica are still cleaning up glitter before they goes out for the first round of playground duty (“The struggle is real, Derek.” “Shut up, Stiles.”), so Scott and Stiles abandon them to craft supply hell and head for the staff room.

 

On the way, they pass Allison marching her sixth graders out to the playground, the kids in a neat, quiet line as they follow her down the hall.

 

“I’ll be up in a minute,” she says to Scott, flashing him a brilliant smile and leaning in to brush a kiss against his cheek. They’re met with a chorus of “EWWWWW!”s from her class. Allison rolls her eyes and ignores them. “Can you heat up my soup for me?”

 

They exchange another kiss, and this time, Allison silences the catcalls and fake-vomiting noises with a flat look and pursed lips, her dimples disappearing from her face; she’s sweet and kind and the kids love her to pieces, but that doesn’t mean they don’t also live in some measure of fear in her presence. She’s not the kind of teacher your push too far and Stiles himself is faintly awed by her.

 

Students suitably cowed, she continues down the hall, and Stiles and Scott head into the staff room, where the big conference table is piled high with pizza boxes. Upon spotting them, Scott immediately changes course from the fridge to the table, his eyes going a bit glassy.

 

Through the window, Stiles catches a glimpse of Derek on playground duty out in the yard, wearing a neon yellow vest and a child on each arm, with a third one clinging to his leg.

 

“That is such a liability,” says Lydia, leaning in next to Stiles and narrowing her eyes as she watches Derek slowly patrol the grounds, weighed down by small children.

 

Stiles snorts and drops his bag on a chair. “Yeah, I don’t think even _you_ can put a stop to Human Jungle Gym Derek Hale, Lydia.”

 

She huffs and leans back, arms crossed over her chest. “We’ll see about that. I ordered enough pizza for the whole faculty, by the way. That means two slices each and _no more_.” She angles an eyebrow at Scott, who’s already got most of one piece crammed into his mouth and is already holding a second. “I’m talking directly to you, Scott.”

 

“You didn’t heat up my soup,” says Allison plaintively, breezing into the staffroom with two thick file folders under her arms.

 

“There’s pizza!” protests Scott, after he swallows. “Don’t tell me you still want _soup_. I don’t even know what to say in response to that.”

 

Allison pulls out a chair and sits down with a sigh, opening one of her file folders.

 

“Are those the report cards that are supposed to be on my desk by tomorrow morning?” asks Lydia sweetly, leaning against the table next to Allison.

 

“They might be,” says Allison cagily. “Anyway, they’re finished, I _promise_. I’m just checking for spelling mistakes. Is there Hawaiian?”

 

Lydia wrinkles her nose, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Yes, but only because _some_ people have things wrong with their taste buds.”

 

“Pass it over,” says Allison, shrugging. “If I don’t eat it, who will?”

 

“Me!” says Scott. “I will!”

 

Ten minutes later, Derek comes in, still rocking the neon vest and looking vaguely windblown. There’s a distinct possibility he’s grown stubble over the course of recess. Spotting the pizza boxes, he asks, “Is one of those meat lover’s?”

 

“Yes,” says Lydia. “But you’re only allowed to eat if you stop letting all the small, breakable children climb on you like you’re a tree. All it takes is one munchkin losing their grip on your intimidating muscles and falling down. Most of the playground is pavement, Derek. You want one of those kids to crack open their skull like an egg? I can just _see_ the lawsuit unfolding before my eyes, and when it does, I’ll blame you, and you alone.”

 

Derek’s expression turns mulish and he picks up a piece of pizza and bites into it pointedly to avoid answering.

 

“I’m going to take that as a ‘Yes, Ms. Martin,’” she says meaningfully, putting two slices of pepperoni on a paper plate and heading back to her office.

 

“Hey, where’s Erica?” Scott asks Derek.

 

“Out for lunch with the other two student teachers,” he replies. “She’s doing circle time with my kids after lunch, while Stiles has yours for music.”

 

“And then the wild rumpus starts,” says Scott gleefully.

 

Derek makes a pained face. “You’re going to bring the entire school down around our ears.” He finishes his pizza and gets to his feet. “We’re playing cat and mouse with the parachute for gym. I need to go set up.”

 

Scott leaps up after him, still smiling widely. “Oh, please don’t go—”

 

Derek starts to back out of the room. “ _No_ , Scott—”

 

Scott chases him out, yelling, “ _WE’LL EAT YOU UP, WE LOVE YOU SO_!”

 

After a moment of confused silence, Stiles squints at Derek’s vacated chair. “He left behind a trail of glitter.”

 

“Fantastic,” says Allison dryly. “He’s infected the staff room, too.” She brushes at her blouse and glitter puffs into the air in a fine cloud. “ _How_ —”

 

“Well, I gotta go get ready for the exquisite joy of listening to twenty-five kindergarteners simultaneously playing exactly the wrong note on the worst instrument ever invented,” says Stiles, getting up as well. “See you later, Allison.”

 

She’s not really listening, still staring dumbfounded at the glitter coating her fingers.

 

After the bell rings, Stiles spends half an hour patiently conducting tone-deaf five-year-olds through a cacophonous rendition of Three Blind Mice while Scott sits at the back of the class shaking in silent laughter.

 

“That’s good!” he yells over the din, wishing he’d remembered his earplugs. “Let’s try it again on three! One, two, _three_ —”

 

Stiles’s entire world dissolves into noise.

 

The wild rumpus didn’t really _end._


End file.
